Friday morning she was fine; Friday night she was not. Mocha started refusing food, and then just lay down and stayed there. Immobilized by unseen forces that dimmed her bright eyes and sapped her strength, it was like a light had gone out in my sweet old girl.
By Saturday morning I finally allowed myself to realize what was happening: this was not a setback in a 20-year-old kitty’s fragile health, or a one-day hunger strike. Mocha might be dying. I spent most of the day doubled up in grief, hovering over her, stroking her along the jawline the way she likes while a familiar purr rumbled quietly under her shallow breathing, trying to coax her into letting me feed her by hand, wetting her fur with tears.
As the day passed into evening, I came to grips with the fact that I was losing her. I spent the night on couch cushions positioned next to her still body, and tried to sleep with one hand on her fur, so that I could hopefully feel it if she took her last breath.
This morning, when I opened my eyes, hers were staring back at me more brightly than before, and when I offered food she ate it. My heart leapt up, thinking perhaps she was on the mend and that this was all a big charade she was pulling just to make me crazy. But tonight, she is lethargic again, refusing food, and complaining loudly when I try to move her a little to be more comfortable. As Barbara, my cat-care guru, reminds me: sometimes a kitty’s natural-cause death can be a halting process, with moments of hope interspersed with the grief.
Having ridden the roller coaster this weekend, my most fervent hope is that my darling old girl goes easily on from here – whether that takes an hour or a week. I hope she goes, feeling loved and comforted, to where her failing body falls away and leaves her free.
My heart goes out to you, Jane. As someone once wrote, they leave little footprints on our hearts and we are never, ever the same.